


Do you wanna fuck a snowman?

by ships_to_sail, yourbuttervoicedbeau (kiwiana)



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gotta be honest I'm at a loss for how to tag this one, M/M, POV David Rose, Snowmen, crack concept tender execution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27748528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/pseuds/ships_to_sail, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiana/pseuds/yourbuttervoicedbeau
Summary: David mimics her stance — and he has to admit, she’s not entirely wrong. In the quickly disappearing light, already blurred a little bit by the still-fallen snow, the snowman does look a little like he has tree trunk thighs and a well-formed ass, rather than being Frosty-shaped. But it’s the best they’re going to do, and David’s toes are officially cold.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose
Comments: 40
Kudos: 120
Collections: Schitt's Creek: Frozen Over (2020)





	Do you wanna fuck a snowman?

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCFrozenOver2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCFrozenOver2020) collection. 



> One of the first prompts posted to Frozen Over was "David makes a snowman and it comes to life as Patrick, so basically a Frosty the Snowman AU, but maybe Patrick doesn't have to melt and they can fall in l-o-v-e", and someone on Twitter said "I will donate to a charity of the author's choice if anyone chooses to accept this mission. I'll double it if they manage to rate it M or E."
> 
> There is... no actual pressure to donate to charity, but a challenge is a challenge.

The first snow in Schitt’s Creek takes David by surprise, and he rolls over one morning only to yelp at the feeling of his own freezing toes grazing his calf as he realizes there’s a suspiciously cold feeling just sort of radiating from the crack in the doorway. 

Sure enough, he cracks the blinds on the curtain in the window and swears, Alexis groaning and rolling over behind him, squishing the pillow more closely to her head in an effort to stifle some of the blindingly white light bouncing off the snow and ice outside.

He’s not exactly a weatherman, but enough winters in New York, Courchevel, and the quainter corners of Zermatt have taught him that there has to be half a dozen inches of powdery, frigid death piled up outside their door already. He shivers, wrapping his arms around his chest and jerking the blinds closed again with an exasperated snap.

And, it’s not fair to say that David hates the snow so much as he has a very _specific_ set of needs when it comes to properly enjoying the snow, and seeing as how he has neither access to the Skarsgård family cedar-wood dry sauna _or_ the salted caramel Ghirardelli dark chocolate hot cocoa he loves so much, he decides to call the day a preemptive waste. 

He pulls a Balmain sweater out of the chest at the end of his bed and thinks briefly of Mutt, who helped him build it; about the kind of toasty warmth that men like Jake seem to always sort of exude out of their pores, as though even the small-scale climate structures of the world have to acknowledge how hot they are. He sighs, maybe a little wistfully, as he pulls the extra black and white striped fabric down over his fingertips and climbs back into bed. 

By the time he wakes up again, it’s dark outside, and the entire world is muffled in a layer of frost and cotton that makes his bones feel heavy, so he simply rolls back over and yells for Alexis to turn off the bathroom light. 

❄️❄️❄️

The next time it snows in Schitt’s Creek, David is slightly more prepared. He wakes up to see the snow and immediately picks up the phone beside his bed to call Stevie.

“Do you want to get high and watch awful holiday movies with me today?” He says as soon as the other line picks up. 

“How did you know it would be me answering?” Stevie sounds petulant and defiant, the ultimate mix that signals Stevie Budd boredom — or, well, Stevie Budd awake and processing her way through life. 

“Who else would it be?”

“Roland.”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t extend the same offer to Roland?” He raises his eyebrow even though she can’t see him, and his eyes roll so hard they hurt when she immediately calls his bluff.

“Oh, would you like me to get him on the phone then? I’m sure he and Jocelyn would be happy to share _all_ parts of their relationship but I can’t promise that Roland wouldn’t make us watch _The Christmas Shoes_ , so…”

David can’t even joke about it. “God, I can’t even joke about it. You know I can’t let Roland in my room for more than five minutes without burning the whole thing down, not after what he did in my parents’ bathroom that first day.”

“I know. I’m just fucking with you.” Stevie sounds so perky, it should be classed as a war crime. 

“So is that a yes?”

The line is quiet for a while, and David is just starting to worry that he’s really going to have to spend another snow day cold and alone and crying his way through four different iterations of Candace Cameron Bure reuniting with the sourpuss Big City Businessman she’s taught to love by the power of the Christmas spirit and gingerbread. He’s just getting ready to open his mouth to apologize when she finally speaks.

“I’ll be there in twenty. There better be a place for me to sit on your bed this time.”

“Well, you’re not coming over during a knitwear arrangement session, so you don’t need to worry.”

And he can’t see her, but he knows she’s biting on the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, because that’s exactly how David’s face is at the moment. 

“Best wishes,” she says.

“Warmest regards,” he replies, and then the line is dead and he’s doing his best to fluff up the pillows and make it incredibly clear, by a certain feng shui of blankets, which side of the bed he will be allowing her to sit on and which side he plans on curling up into. 

It’s only been fifteen minutes when there’s a knock on his door and he opens it to reveal Stevie, holding up the jumbo bottle of radish-rhubarb wine that is the new ‘holiday’ blend from Herb Ertlinger’s. Its entire existence is atrocious, but the fact that it’s bottled in a three-gallon twist top bottle somehow seems to just add insult to the injury. Not to mention several almost-sprained wrists by the time the two of them hit the bottom of the bottle.

“Merry Christmas, David,” she says, shoving the bottle into his hand and immediately throwing herself down on the side of the bed closest to the nightstand — _his_ side. At least she has the courtesy to slip off her slush-lined boots before sliding her feet underneath the comforter and burrowing down into the pile of pillows he’d specifically arranged for his own comfort.

“I thought we were going with Happy Holidays,” he grumbles as he slips into bed next to her, snatching the remote out of her hand and unmuting the Hallmark channel. “Especially given that we’re a delightfully half-half household.”

“Well, Nana Budd was more of the lapsed Catholic, intense familial guilt holiday cheermeister, so what do you say we get disgustingly drunk and make out?”

She’s looking at him completely earnestly, like she’d just suggested they go out for dinner at the café instead of distracting themselves from the holiday blues by engaging in the kind of activities they’d both agreed more than once just made things awkward. 

“Mm, that’s gonna be a hard pass on that second part, but lucky us _The Christmas Triplets_ is just getting ready to start. I vote we drink every time someone makes a seasonal pun.”

“Oh my god, I should’ve brought two bottles,” Stevie says, shoving her shoulder into his. “Go pour us drinks, I’m finding something better than _The Cat Who Saved the Manager.”_

“Is that… is that real?”

“Isn’t the bigger issue the fact that you can’t tell?”

That gets a real laugh out of David, full and loud and happier than anything that’s come out of his mouth in… longer than he cares to remember. He’s transitioned from one owner of The Blouse Barn to another, Alexis is taking classes at the community college, Stevie is… well, having regular whiskey at Jake’s and keeping herself busy beating 50ShadesofRay at online Texas Hold ‘Em. Life is fine. 

But, even though ‘fine’ is a long, long way away from the disastrous first few holidays they’d had in Schitt’s Creek, it’s also a feeling that makes David itchy in his bones, huffing little sighs at empty rooms because _something_ just doesn’t feel quite right.

He’s slipping back into bed next to Stevie, carefully balancing two alarmingly pink glasses of something bubbly and acidic smelling, just as she’s putting on _The Family Stone._ He groans, but makes no move to change the channel.

“No mockery when I start crying,” he says.

“Deal.” She pulls a slightly wrinkled joint out of the front pocket of her flannel and somehow manages to slip it into David’s hand while also grabbing one of the glasses from him without spilling a drop on the comforter. David shoots her an impressed look, and she just raises her eyebrow in response. 

They lapse into silence next to each other, taking long drinks of the wine and trying not to grimace too visibly, passing the joint back and forth between them until it burns the ends of David’s fingers and he shoves them into his increasingly numb mouth. 

The wine and the weed hit him like a one-two punch, and somewhere between watching Sarah Jessica Parker kick Rachel McAdams out of her room and Craig T. Nelson sharing a joint of his own with Luke Wilson, David falls asleep. He wakes up with his head in Stevie’s lap, her fingers running gentle waves across his scalp as every member of the Stone family unwraps the same portrait and Diane Keaton starts to cry, so David starts to cry, and — true to her word — Stevie doesn’t say a thing. 

The credits roll and David forces his body vertical, his back screaming at him for falling asleep in such a weird position. 

“It’s snowing again,” Stevie says, her voice quiet and almost child-like. Her eyes are glued to the window and for a second after David looks, all he can see is their reflection in the glass. But then he blinks and his eyes refocus and he can see the big white flakes already starting to stick to the edges of the window. 

"It's pretty," he mumbles, burrowing into her lap, willing her fingers back into his hair. But there's an energy in her body that wasn't there before and he feels it as soon as he puts his ear against her thigh. It's like he can feel the words a millisecond before she says them. 

"Let's go play in it."

"No."

"Come on," she whines, bouncing her leg a little. "We did the sentimental movie watching thing where I very dutifully didn't say anything when…" she trails off and raises an eyebrow at him and he leans back, affronted.

"So we're bargaining friendship favours now? This is what we've stooped to, a base exchange of duties instead of genuine companionship?"

She takes a second to cock her head and squint her eyes before nodding decisively. "Yep. And it's my turn. Now get your snow stuff on."

She hops off the bed, jostling him into something like a sitting position, her giggles covering the sound of his exasperated sighs. He watches for a second as she rustles through his second drawer until she pulls out one of his Valentinos, and then the anxiety springing up in him makes his legs move of his own accord.

"That's cashmere," he says, pulling it gently out of her hands and putting it back in the drawer, petting it a very restrained three times. 

"You're not telling me you, a Canadian, don't have snow gear hidden somewhere in this arrangement of incredibly expensive fishing nets and leather gauntlets."

He rolls his eyes and stares at his nail beds for a second before he sucks his teeth and nods begrudgingly. "There… may be a specific carry-all in the Love Room that _might_ be full of what one _might_ call all-weather couture."

Stevie's grin is practically feral.

❄️❄️❄️

45 minutes later David is feeling significantly less high, but is, begrudgingly, having fun. There have been snow angels, and shots of Fireball that Stevie somehow mysteriously produces from the pockets of her coat. There is _one_ quickly failed attempt at a snowball fight, after which they find themselves content to stand by the picnic table, breathing heavily and watching the stars. Something sardonic flits through David's mind, a quip about _the saddest tale this side of the 11pm block on the Hallmark channel,_ when a shooting star overhead stops him.

Perhaps he's not _completely_ dead inside after all. 

"Make a wish," Stevie says. 

Out loud, David says, “I wish I had weed that wasn’t abandoned on the floor of a one-star motel.” But inside, a little voice that always seems loudest when the sun goes down, whispers, _I wish I wasn't so God damned lonely all the time. I wish I could have my half-half holiday miracle, for once._

He feels bad as soon as he thinks it, but luckily Stevie is laughing at what he said and his face is warm and he's glad that she's his person. 

"What's your wish?" He asks when her laughter starts to taper off.

"I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you," she says, straight-faced. "I wanna build a snowman – **don't.** " She cuts him off the second he opens his mouth. "If you make a _Frozen_ reference right now I will murder you and leave you to become a frozen popsicle in the woods."

"A what kind of popsicle?"

"A fro– fuck you!" She reaches out to slap him and he dodges away, backing up to the far side of the picnic table and putting his hands up in surrender.

She bites down on the inside of her cheek, and he does the same, and in a kind of silent truce, they start to build a snowman. Stevie starts to roll the bottom ball while David scoops snow off the picnic table and starts to form it into a much smaller sphere. He feels silly at first, but after a while, the cool of the snow through his thick gloves, and the muffled crunching of Stevie’s feet, becomes almost kind of… nice.

“Done.” David turns to see more of an… oval-esque approximation of a circle, with another lump of snow piled on top of it.

“Done with what, a fucking Umberto Boccioni statue?”

“A what?”

“Never mind, let’s just get the head put on this snow… man-shaped thing.”

Stevie rolls her eyes and reaches out to help David pack snow around the small ball in his hands, affixing it to the top of the stack Stevie had made. “One sec,” Stevie rushes inside David’s room and comes out with a couple of buttons he’s been meaning to sew back onto his coat for days — they were in his bedside drawer, the dirty little sneak — and a handful of coffee beans from the only decent roast he’s managed to find within 50 kilometres of this place. 

“What are you doing?”

“A snowman needs a face, David.” She places the buttons carefully where the eyes would be, and arranges the coffee beans in a simulation of a smile. She pulls her toque off her head and slips it over the mound of snow, and then she starts to unwind her scarf.

“Um, excuse me, I gave you that!”

“Sure, and I know you only gave it to me because it’s the one you don’t love the most, so I can only assume you’ll be okay to sacrifice it to the snow art gods.”

“Oh, is snow art what this is?”

He winces as Stevie winds a _very_ expensive Hermès scarf gently around a _snowman’s_ neck before she steps back to admire their handiwork. 

“You know, if you squint and tilt your head, it almost looks like a snowman with a giant ass.”

David mimics her stance — and he has to admit, she’s not entirely wrong. In the quickly disappearing light, already blurred a little bit by the still-fallen snow, the snowman does look a little like he has tree trunk thighs and a well-formed ass, rather than being Frosty-shaped. But it’s the best they’re going to do, and David’s toes are officially cold.

“Well, good for him then. Are we going inside now?”

“One last thing…” Stevie winks at him and runs back towards the motel, bypassing David’s room and heading to the Love Room again. She’s gone for long enough that David starts to walk back towards the motel, when suddenly she comes bursting out of the room, her hand full of… something as she barrels towards the snowman.

David pivots and expects to see a carrot or some sticks for arms or — well, anything, really, other than the thing he sees: a silicone dick sticking out of what can most appropriately be called the groin region of the bottom blob of snow. It’s flesh-coloured and it sparkles under the last of the evening sunlight and the fact that it exists, and that Stevie owns it, and that she’s put it onto their snow creation, all slam around the inside of his brain so that all he manages to stutter out is: “What are you doing?!”

“I thought a giant-assed snowman deserves to be… endowed.” She’s laughing and her cheeks are bright red, her eyes glassy, and David wonders how many more of those Fireball shots she’s managed to down without his noticing. “Besides, how many chances does one have to show off the only dildo that could ever appropriately fit a snow-creation?”

David opens his mouth and shuts it when he realizes she has a point. A weirdly braggy and somehow obliquely filthy point, but he lets it stand. He loops his arms through her elbow and stoops to rest his head on hers. “Just make sure you clean it before you use it again, deal?”

She snorts, but leans her head against his shoulder. “Duh.”

❄️❄️❄️

By the time the sun has officially set, David is wiped. The cold and snow seem to have sapped him of anything even remotely resembling energy, and he’s got just enough motivation to slip out of his snow clothes and into a hot shower before he’s falling into bed and apologizing to Tomorrow David about whatever hair disaster he’s walking them into full-force. He shoots Stevie a text that he’s going to pass on their second movie night, and when he doesn’t get a response in the next half-hour, he figures she’s either passed out in the office, in which case she'll get back to him when she wants, or she's decided to just go home for the day and she'll get back to him when she wants. He plugs his phone in, flips off the lamp, and says one more silent thank you to the universe that Alexis is staying at Ted’s again.

❄️❄️❄️

David has no idea how long he’s been asleep when there’s a knock on the door and he shoots up to a sitting position before his mind catches up with his body. He immediately runs a hand through his hair and grimaces at the general outline of the shape he finds. The knock comes again, and he makes a grunting sound at the door as he hauls himself out of bed that must be loud enough to be heard because the noise stops.

He pulls the door open without checking the peephole, because he is an idiot and because he is exhausted and because it’s never anyone but his dad, or Stevie, or Alexis if she’s somehow lost her key _again_.

Only this time, it’s not any of them. In fact, it’s no one he knows, a bundled-up and shivering stranger who has their hands tucked deeply into their front pockets and is rocking their weight gently back and forth on their heels.

“The fuck?” The words are out of David’s mouth before he can stop them.

“Hi, oh my god, I’m so sorry. I— my truck, it’s— can I use your phone?”

“The office is that way,” David pulls the door a little tighter into his body, the first real sense that he might have made a mistake slipping up his spine. 

The stranger laughs — a low, warm sound — and nods. “Yeah, no, I know. I knocked there. In fact, I’ve knocked on every one of these doors so far and you were the first person to answer. I promise I’m not here to murder you.”

“Oh, well. Isn’t that reassuring.” 

“I certainly hope so.” The stranger’s grin is wide and teasing in the kind of way that makes David have to work to bite back his answering smile; it’s a lovely smile, even though it’s half-hidden behind— 

“Are you wearing a _Hermès scarf?”_ A beat too late he realises the disbelief in his tone might be construed as offensive but the stranger doesn’t blink, just looking down at himself in bemusement.

“Oh, yeah. I guess I am.” He glances down at where the edges of the scarf are resting against his coat before he looks back up again. “So… your phone?”

“Tell you what.” Everything about this guy _screams_ making fun of David, but for some unfathomable reason, he doesn’t hate it as much as he thinks he should. Instead of scurrying away, the poking makes him want to poke back. “I’ll let you use my phone if you tell me why a guy driving through Schitt’s Creek in a truck in the middle of the night is wearing Hermès.”

“A very normal bartering system.” He shoves his hands in his coat, a shiver running through him. “Any chance I could come inside while I tell you, though? It’s freezing out here.”

“Oh, right.” Realistically, if the guy was an axe murderer, he probably would have killed David already so David moves back, letting him step inside the door. He immediately bends down to unlace his boots, and when he stands up again, the door now closed behind him, he tugs the scarf the whole way out of his coat with a small smile.

“So _this_ object of fascination was actually given to me.” He strokes a thumb along the edge of it and David’s eyes follow the movement unconsciously. “It’s a bit expensive to be practical, really, but I didn’t think I was going to be out in the elements tonight. Apparently, my truck had other ideas.” He looks up at David, eyes dancing as he smirks. “Have I earned my phone call now?”

There’s something low and flirty in his tone, a thread David wants to pull on; if they were in a bar, or a club, or basically anywhere other than a dilapidated motel David would reply with something like _I can think of a few more ways you could earn it._ Instead he gestures to the crappy landline sitting on the nightstand between his and Alexis’ beds. 

“Mi telephone es su telephone.” As soon as it’s out of his mouth he winces, and the guy poorly suppresses a laugh.

“Flawless Spanish.” He sinks down on David’s bed and pulls off his gloves, shoving them into his coat pocket before he reaches for the phone, then hesitates. “Sorry— I might, uh, also need the number for a local mechanic.”

“Oh, right, sure.” David pulls out his phone, searches the number for Bob’s Garage, and reads it out slowly as the stranger dials. His frown gets more pronounced the longer he waits, until finally he puts the handset down with a deep sigh.

“No one’s picking up. I would have thought it would redirect to a 24-hour line, but…” 

“Oh, yeah, Bob’s hard enough to get to do work during daylight hours.” David shrugs. “I doubt he’s set his phone to wake him up.”

“Dammit.” The guy pulls off his toque, scrubbing his fingers through his hair in frustration before he stands up. “Okay, well, thanks for helping me, anyway.” He moves towards the door, and David takes a step forward before he can stop himself.

“Wait, where are you going?”

The guy blinks at him. “To go catch a few hours’ sleep in my truck before the mechanic wakes up.”

“You can’t do that.” David’s never given this much of a shit about a stranger in his life, but everything inside him is screaming at him not to let the guy walk out the door. “It’s below freezing out there.”

“It’s fine.” He’s distracted, not looking at David as he shoves his hat back on his head. “I’m pretty sure there’s a picnic blanket in the back or something.”

David takes another step forward, alarmed. “Are you kidding me? You can’t sleep in your car under a _picnic blanket_ in this weather!” 

Finally, the guy looks at him, the parts of his face that David can still see between the hat and the scarf moving from confusion to curiosity to amusement. A small smile curves the edges of his lips as he takes a step towards David. “Do I have another option?”

David takes a step, heat bubbling up his spine. This is a feeling he thought he’d left behind in New York; the excitement of connecting with a total stranger, of the understanding passing between them, the anticipation of knowing what’s about to happen. “You could stay here.”

“Ah.” Another step. “In the spare bed?”

It almost feels like a rejection. It would feel like a rejection, if not for the teasing smirk and the electricity crackling up David’s spine. “I mean, sure, if that’s what you want.” He takes yet another step forward, so they’re toe to toe. “Is that what you want?”

“No.” The guy’s eyes drop to David’s lips as if magnetised. “That’s not what I want.”

David’s not really sure who leans in first. There’s a cold nose pressed against David’s cheek; the stranger tastes like iced coffee and David moans into it as he deepens the kiss, his arms coming up between them to grab the lapels of the guy’s collar and haul him closer and _fuck,_ there are so many layers between them, who allowed this? They must be on the same wavelength, though, because chilly knuckles are brushing the back of David’s hands and then his fingers are being prised away so that the guy can pull the coat off, throwing it haphazardly onto Alexis’ bed without once breaking the kiss. The toque follows, and then the scarf, but as the guy makes to throw it David winces and takes it carefully out of his hands, unable to bear seeing a Hermès treated that way. He backs up just far enough to fold it and place it gently on the nightstand instead and the guy follows him, eyes dark as they flick between David and the bed.

“So what do you want, then?”

The guy blinks, eyes gratifyingly unfocused as he parses the question. Then he smiles — not the teasing, mocking smiles from earlier, but genuine and wide and _god,_ David barely knows how to breathe under the force of that smile. “You. You and me, here, together.” 

And the thing is, David’s asked that question a lot, and received a lot of answers ranging from the suggestive to the downright filthy to once an actual annotated BDSM contract, complete with a review worksheet for afterwards. And none of those answers ever made him feel like this; like he’s the center of someone’s universe, like the togetherness is the most important part.

He swallows back the sudden lump in his throat before he nods. “Sounds good to me.” Instead of stepping away from the bed he reaches out and pulls the guy towards it by the hem of his sweater — it looks cheap enough that stretching out the fabric shouldn’t be a concern. Once they’re pressed up together again he leaves his fingers where they are, trailing lightly across the guy’s stomach and making him shiver before reaching down with the other hand as well and tugging up. Somehow the guy’s undershirt must caught up in the movement too because once the handful of fabric has been tossed on top of the rest of his clothes David finds himself looking down at lean, well-formed muscles; at dusky pink nipples he has a sudden urge to run his teeth over; at a sparse trail of hair leading down from his belly button and disappearing into his jeans. David wants to follow the line but before he can drop to his knees, two large hands are at his waist and he suddenly finds his own sweater being coaxed over his head.

“Careful, that’s—”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” True to his word the stranger folds the sweater slowly, almost reverently, before placing it next to his own clothes on Alexis’ bed. David’s t-shirt is next, with no less care, and soon enough they’re both shirtless and just looking at each other, the air charged between them. Before David can suggest trying to arrange themselves in the twin bed the guy looks him right in the eye as he unbuckles his belt and flicks open the button on his own jeans before slowly, unbearably slowly, unzipping the fly. Once that’s done he brings his hands to the waistband of his jeans and then stops, watching David with a small smirk.

In his dazed and painfully aroused state, it takes David a moment. “Okay, okay.” He’s just in a pair of sweatpants for sleep and can’t tease in quite the same way, so instead he just loosens the drawstring before tugging them unceremoniously past his hips and letting them drop on the floor. His self-consciousness is forgotten a second later when in response, the guy pushes his jeans down his thighs and steps out of them, and all David can do is _stare._ He has what looks like, even through boxer briefs, a nicely-sized package, but _god,_ his _thighs._ David could bury himself in those thighs, fuck them and feel them wrapped around his head while he sucked the guy’s cock and pull them tight against his hips while he— 

“Are we standing up all night?”

David snaps back to attention. “No, definitely not.” He half-pushes and half-pulls the guy until he’s lying flat on his back on David’s bed, legs spread a little and arms out to the side. David swallows and, before he can second guess the impulse, brings his nose to the guy’s groin and runs his nose along his length. The guy groans somewhere above his head, and when David looks up at him he finds warm brown eyes staring almost wildly back at him.

“Can I suck your cock? I really want to get you in my mouth.”

 _“Please.”_

If David’s mouth wasn’t already watering he might be more inclined to make a teasing remark about how he’s got the guy begging already but instead he just leans forward, grabbing a condom before he gets back between the guy’s legs and then he slides his fingers gently under the waistband of his underwear, glancing up and waiting for the frantic nod before he pulls them down around the guy’s thighs.

He groans as the guy’s cock springs free. It’s thick, and uncircumcised, and— 

David blinks.

A trick of the dim light, he supposes. Something to do with the snowfall outside, shifting shadows and the late hour, made it look for half a second like the guy’s dick was _sparkling,_ which of course is not a thing.

Ignoring that, he quickly tears open the condom packet and rolls it over the guy's now rock-hard dick. He mouths over the head as the guy writhes underneath him, his breath coming in short pants, and his hands land in David’s hair for a second as he pats distractedly.

David pulls off for a moment. “If you want to pull my hair, you can.”

The guy just blinks at him. “Um—”

“You don’t have to. But I like it.” Apparently those are the magic words because the guy’s whole face relaxes just before David sinks back down onto his cock, tongue trailing down the underside as he goes, and long fingers wind their way into his hair. David groans, encouraging, and gets a hard tug in response that makes his eyelids flutter shut.

Even through latex the stranger’s cock is hot in his mouth, hard and throbbing. There are few things David loves more than giving head and he loses himself in it as the moans and whimpers from above his head become wilder, more desperate until he’s thrusting up into David’s mouth. David just swallows around him, his hand reaching up to brush gently over his stomach, and the guy cries out sharply and thrusts up once more before he stills with his hands tight in David’s hair.

“Oh, god.” He sounds a little dazed and David sits up with a grin, wiping his chin where he’s drooled all over himself. “Fuck, that was— oh my god.”

“Mmm, you’re welcome.” He’s been ignoring his own insistent erection but now that he no longer has the other guy’s pleasure to focus on it’s making itself well-known, and he reaches down to squeeze himself quickly. The guy notices, eyes tracking the movement hungrily.

“I really want to make you come, but that was the best orgasm of my life and I’m not sure I can move right now.” 

David can’t decide if the overwhelming emotion right now is smugness or disappointment, but then his eyes land on the stranger’s underwear still shoved down under his balls and he has the spark of an idea. “What if you could get me off _without_ you having to move?” When the guy just looks at him, curious but not uninterested, David swallows. “Can I fuck your thighs?”

The guy’s mouth drops open. “That sounds— yeah, yes, you can do that.” With what does look like a huge amount of effort he rolls over with a loud groan. “God, please.” 

David’s mouth has gone dry as he stares at the guy’s ass, round and firm and… well, David could do a thousand squats a day and never have an ass like that, that’s all. He pulls the guy’s underwear all the way off his legs and drops it on the floor, then does the same with his own before leaning forward to grab his lube; the movement nestles his erection between those perfect ass cheeks, just for a moment, and David longs to spread them apart and rim the guy until he screams and then fuck him until he’s coming all over again. But that’s not what they’re doing tonight.

 _Tonight?_ David shakes himself quickly. This isn’t an ongoing thing. He doesn’t even know the guy’s _name._

He pours lube into his hand and strokes himself slowly, at serious risk of this all being over before it starts. Once he’s nice and slick he applies the rest of the lube to the guy’s thighs and then he brackets the guy’s legs with his knees, arms holding him upright.

“Ready?”

The answer is muffled by the pillow, but unmistakable. _“Please.”_

With a loud groan, David sinks down between the guy’s thighs. They’re firm, the muscles rippling underneath his thrusts. Solid. _Like tree trunks,_ he thinks, the phrase pinging something vaguely familiar in the back of his brain. But he can’t think about anything right now, nothing except the way these thighs feel squeezing around him, so tight he knows he’s not going to last.

“Oh god, fuck, fuck, _fuck—”_ With one last, embarrasingly high-pitched wail he’s coming all over the guy’s perfect thighs before sinking boneless down on top of him as he shudders through the aftershocks.

He’s not sure how long he lies there but eventually, the stickiness forces him up. He grabs a washcloth from the bathroom, cleaning himself up first and then wetting it again before he brings it back into the room. He half-expects the guy to be dressed already but instead he’s still lying exactly where David left him, shoulders relaxed and a blissed-out smile on his face where he’s turned it to the side.

“Thanks.” He takes the washcloth with a soft smile, cleaning up the mess between his thighs. Once he’s done he pulls back the blankets and slips in, lying on his side so there’s enough room for David next to him while David gapes at him.

None of his one night stands back in New York ever wanted to _snuggle._ Hell, David had a California King in his place in Soho, and still most of them never stayed the night.

But, the thing is — he doesn’t hate it.

He slips into the space the guy has left for him, lying so they’re face to face. It’s a shame that he didn’t get a chance to play with those gorgeous nipples; he thinks he could really make this guy scream for him, if he did that.

 _In the morning,_ he thinks as he slips into sleep.

❄️❄️❄️

The guy is gone when David wakes up. 

Of course he is. They always were, especially the nameless ones. David was stupid to ever think otherwise. The bed is cold, and feels empty despite the fact that it was barely built for one grown adult let alone two. All of the guy’s clothes have disappeared and there’s no sign he was ever here — until David glances at his nightstand and spots his scarf, still neatly folded from the night before. There's something weirdly familiar about it, and he can't quite shake the feeling as he finally grabs his phone. 

He's got a text from Stevie, less asking and more demanding that he meet her for breakfast in— shit, 45 minutes. He jumps out of bed and rushes through a shower, getting dressed in a daze as he tries and fails not to think about what a spectacular orgasm he had last night.

He’s just about to leave the room when he hesitates. He glances back and forth a few times before he finally gives into the impulse, walking back towards the bedside table and wrapping the stranger’s scarf around his neck. It's still freezing outside, and what kind of idiot leaves Hermès behind after a one night stand?

He's halfway down the road to the café before he realizes the snowman is gone, and he absent-mindedly hopes Stevie grabbed the snowman’s clothes and not some group of particularly stylish birds.

❄️❄️❄️

“You didn’t even get his _name?”_ Stevie’s voice is far too loud for a café full of people who _know him,_ and he shushes her with an annoyed hand flap. 

He takes a bite of his waffles, chewing slowly just because he knows it annoys her. “It’s not my fault handsome strangers are drawn to my room.”

“Handsome, huh?” She scoffs. “Well come on, spill. What did he look like?”

David considers the question. “He looked like—” 

There’s a rush of cool air as the door to the café opens and something — David will never understand what, but later on in his memories he mixes it with the smell of snow and ozone — something makes him look up even though he couldn’t care less who’s coming into the café. When he sees the figure in the doorway, though, he drops his fork onto his plate with such a loud clatter that Stevie jumps.

“David, what the hell?”

The words are sticking halfway out of his mouth; he clears his throat and starts again. “He looked like that," flicking his eyes towards the door.

The guy walks towards the counter without so much as a glance in David’s direction. It’s definitely him — same coat, same toque, same tilt to his lips that David can’t stop staring at — but no scarf. No scarf, because the scarf he was wearing last night is currently wrapped around David’s neck.

“Holy fuck.” 

Stevie’s mouth is dropped in a wide grin, her eyes flitting between David and the stranger as if she’s at some kind of sportsball match. They both watch as the guy makes small talk with Twyla for a couple of minutes before accepting a cup from her, and then he turns and scans the surprisingly full for once café, seemingly looking for a place to sit.

David realises what Stevie’s going to do half a second before she does it, but too late to stop it. “Excuse me, sir? You can join my friend and me, if you like.” She kicks out the spare seat at the table as David glares at her, and the guy walks over with a relieved smile. 

“Thanks, that’s really kind. I’m Patrick.” He holds out his hand first to Stevie and then to David, without so much as a flicker of recognition on his features as they shake hands.

Which is… somewhat disconcerting, actually. It’s not like David expected a makeout session on top of the table (though he wouldn’t have complained) but he would have thought even if the guy had regrets there’d be _something_ — a flicker in his eyes, a tightening of his lips. 

Instead, he looks at David as though he’s a stranger.

Which, David supposes, he is.

“So are you new in town?” Stevie’s question sounds polite, but David’s known her long enough to hear the amusement under her words and he longs to kick her under the table, but the fear that he might miss and kick the stranger — Patrick, he reminds himself — stops him.

“Just drove in this morning. I wasn’t intending to stop here but a terrifying-looking light on my dashboard came on. I made it to the garage but apparently the mechanic is on some couple’s retreat, and now I can’t actually get the damn thing started again, so I guess I’m stuck here for a couple of nights.”

Stevie glances at David with a smirk, then back at Patrick. “You arrived this morning.”

“Sure did.”

“Not last night?”

Patrick’s face flickers in confusion. “No… this morning. Why?”

Stevie shrugs. “Just curious.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Actually, I own the local motel. Wanted to make sure we hadn’t left some poor soul stranded.” Her eyes land back on David. “Sleeping alone.”

“You own the motel?” Patrick’s eyes light up. “I don’t suppose you have a room available for the next two nights, do you?”

Stevie answers Patrick, but her eyes never leave David’s. “I’m sure we can find you a bed.”

Patrick sighs in relief. “Oh, you’re a lifesaver. I was not looking forward to sleeping in my truck.” He glances at David, who takes a sip of his coffee so he has something to do other than stare into those eyes. “It’s below freezing at night, and I’m pretty sure all I have in there is a picnic blanket or something.” He's looking at David with a small smile perching in the corner of his mouth and sparkling eyes that David _swears_ he's seen before.

David coughs on nothing, coughing to clear his throat as he stutters. “You can't sleep in your car under a picnic blanket in this weather."

“Not if there's another option," Patrick shoots back, and David has that same feeling he had last night – that he's being poked, and he wants to poke back. 

"Luckily for you, there's another option."

"Lucky for me, huh?" 

David pretends not to see Stevie, eyes darting back and forth between them like it's a tennis match. "Well, the motel here is of the finest three star quality, at least one TV remote for every three rooms and towels delivered, mostly."

Stevie flips him the bird and Patrick laughs. "Sounds perfect. I was going to see if there's any way to hitch a ride to the nearby town, look for a mechanic there, but I'll come by the motel after?"

"Literally any time," Stevie says dryly.

"Perfect. It was great to meet you two. Talk about a holiday miracle, huh?" And David's not an expert on the move, but he swears Patrick winks at him as he walks out of the Café and back into the cold. 


End file.
